Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘My friends,’ Tinka replies. ‘They can be trusted – and please, everybody calls me Tinka.’

  ‘Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy,’ says Harry Rose unexpectedly. ‘It’s the name of a book one of my, uh, friends is writing,’ she explains.

  ‘I want to know about your friends,’ Tinka replies at once. ‘Not that I’m writing a book or anything – just a piece on what the women of East Pakistan have endured during this conflict.’

  ‘Same old idea,’ Harry Rose sighs as she continues to de-head the flowers in her lap efficiently. ‘Really, if I had a kaala tika for every writer, screenwriter, journalist, poet and director who wanted me to tell the story of the men in my life I would be as black as a negro by now.’

  Tinka apologizes humbly for being so unoriginal. Harry Rose waves her sorrys aside and accepts a hundred-rupee note, tucking it securely inside the neckline of her red-and-turq kaftan.

  ‘Where do you want me to begin?’

  ‘At the beginning,’ Tinka replies. ‘I want to hear everything.’

  ‘Me too,’ Julian choruses.

  It’s the first thing he’s said, Tinka realizes, amused. Harry Rose’s beauty has clearly got him gobsmacked.

  ‘And me,’ Leo adds. ‘Err, what are you doing with those flowers, by the way?’

  ‘They’re calendulas,’ Harry replies, gently fingering the petals of one bright flower. ‘I’m making a poultice. To disinfect and heal flesh wounds.’

  ‘Flesh,’ Julian repeats idiotically.

  Harry Rose’s luscious lips part in an enchanting little-girl grin. Then she stretches luxuriantly. Marvellous undulations occur beneath the silk kaftan. In the manner of a Great Teacher stating an undisputable, eternal truth, she declares, ‘All men are dogs.’

  ‘Hear hear!’ Tinka bursts into spontaneous applause.

  ‘But Tinka says all men are snakes,’ Leo objects.

  ‘Snakes, dogs, same thing.’ Harry Rose waves one manicured hand dismissively at this petty quibbling.

  ‘Yeah, don’t be so literal.’ Tinka twinkles at him. ‘Would you care to expand on that statement, Harry?’

  Harry Rose puts aside her bowl of decapitated calendulas, leans in and rests her chin on her hands. The change in position causes her bosom to squish between her elbows, increasing her generous cleavage to Grand Canyon-like proportions. A waft of perfume drifts towards them, mingling with the scent of calendulas.

  ‘My father married me off to a thirty-year-old man when I was twelve, and my husband sold me into prostitution two weeks later. Don’t look so shocked.’ This is addressed to Leo. ‘It’s a very ordinary story, happens to many many little girls in rural Bihar.’

  ‘You’re Bihari?’ Tinka looks up from her scribbling.

  She nods, a faraway look in her doe-like eyes. ‘Bi-harry Rose,’ she explains. ‘And my name is Gulab Kali. Which means—’

  ‘Rosebud.’ Tinka nods, writing again. ‘I get it.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Harry Rose chuckles and raps Tinka’s scribbling hand, stilling it. ‘I was the sauciest, sassiest thing in those days – not the withered-up crone I am now.’

  She pauses graciously so they can table fervent protests against this modest statement, then continues:

  ‘There was this one feeble, consumptive fellow, just come out of England and so homesick! None of the girls could get his worm to stir, no matter how hard they played the pungi, so finally, his pals brought him to me, and I fixed him. His name was Harry and that’s why I’m called Harry Rose – because Harry finally rose to the occasion.’

  Tinka’s dimplets flash. ‘This time I really get it.’

  Harry laughs again and continues to talk. Her life has been a rich, eventful one. She tells the story of her lows and highs, her brush with drug addiction and how, finally, she decided to learn some other profession besides the one she was engaged in and settled on Ayurvedic medicine – ‘Because dearie, half the fellows who came to me had some sexy problem or the other, and I had to help them deal with it!’

  Then she expands her theme to larger topics.

  ‘What is liberation?’ she demands as the small boy re-enters with cups of sweet strong coffee. ‘All these,’ she indicates the men in the room, keep saying we are suffering under the zulm of dictators like Yahya Khan and bloody naak-mein-dum Nikka Khan, and we should fight for our freedom and be liberated, but what I want to know is, how can a nation be free if fifty per cent of it are kept subjugated and battered?’

  ‘Fifty per cent?’ Julian asks, puzzled.

  She rolls her magnificent eyes.

  ‘I mean all of us women, of course! There’s a petty Yahya Khan or Nikka Khan in every Bengali home – they’re the ones who have to defeated! That’s the war of liberation I’m interested in, not this my-penis-is-bigger-than-your-penis rubbish!’

  ‘Yeaaah!’ Tinka’s American accent, that relic of her childhood which resurfaces whenever she is particularly moved, kicks in with a vengeance. ‘Rrright on, Miss Harry!’

  ‘Hey, hang on…’ Leo tries to protest. ‘All men are not the same…’

  Harry Rose turns to face him.

  ‘Dearie, I’ve seen plenty, and believe me, they’re all the same! Except for race and colour, of course, but those differences are superficial. I mean, if you had to buy a banana and a couple of plums, would you care if the thaila they came in was black or white or brown?’

  ‘Not at all!’ Tinka assures her as the men splutter into their coffee. ‘You’re right again!’

  ‘Surely, there are some points of difference…’ Julian tries to protest.

  ‘Maybe.’ Harry has lit a cigarette. She inhales deeply. ‘Like the West Pakistani soldiers are the vainest, the Bihari Razzakars the cruellest, the Indians the horniest, and the Muktis are the cheapest, always asking the girls for free fucks because they’re “liberating the homeland”. She leans in, the doe eyes sparkling playfully. ‘I tell them, “Dearie, I don’t give a fuck – especially a free one!”’

  She laughs uproariously, and everybody joins in.

  ‘Anyway, I’m like the Red Cross – I’m neutral and helpful and on nobody’s side!’

  ‘Except your own?’ Tinka suggests with a ghost of a twinkle.

  Harry Rose twinkles back. ‘Except my own!’

  Tinka smiles, then asks in a slightly altered tone, ‘Harry, there are whispers that this place is a safe hous—’

  ‘Your bra’s all wrong,’ Harry Rose interrupts her, smoke streaming from both nostrils. ‘It’s too tight. Let everything breathe a little, and don’t worry that your boobs will get saggy if you do. They won’t.’

  ‘Sure.’ Tinka takes this without a blink. ‘Uh, why do people say your place is a safe house—’

  ‘At least, they won’t if every time you take a bath, you sprinkle them first with very hot water and then immediately with very cold water. Then they’ll stay as tight as young buds in the springtime. Like mine.’

  ‘…that your place is a safe house for Indians and Muktis?’

  The older woman stubs out her cigarette, her expression pained.

  ‘I don’t want to answer that question,’ she says. ‘Don’t you get it?’

  Tinka looks her right in the eye.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about boobs,’ she replies. ‘Don’t you get it?’

  Harry Rose folds her arms over her chest.

  ‘You’re looking for somebody, aren’t you?’ she says bluntly. ‘That look in your eye – hopeful, desperate – I saw it as soon as you came in. Do you even want my interview or was all that just a cover?’

  ‘I do want your interview,’ Tinka replies steadily. ‘All that stuff you said, it’s great. But—’

  ‘Brother or boyfriend?’

  Tinka bows her head, her eyes shuttering.

  ‘I don’t have either.’

  ‘She’s lying,’ Julian says chattily. ‘She’s a real liar, our Tinka – she has a laddie somewhere, I know. This has to be about him. He broke her heart, so she’s give
n up eating and bathing.’

  Harry abandons her aggressive stance and bends over Tinka.

  ‘Really?’ she asks gently.

  Tinka’s head comes up.

  ‘I’m done with men,’ she says fiercely. ‘They’re liars and they’re fools and all they want to do is kill each other. I’m going to adopt a few children from the refugee camps and raise them alone, without fathers or foolishness.’

  ‘Now you’re being foolish,’ Harry Rose points out practically. ‘As if any orphanage – even your great Mother Teresa’s – will let you adopt children after you came on screen with no clothes on, full guddi-fuddi showing!’

  Tinka looks totally deflated.

  ‘Shit, you’re right. Now what should I do?’

  ‘Make some babies the old-fashioned way,’ the older woman advises. ‘It’s the best way to do it!’

  ‘Maybe you’ll find a suitable procreating partner at tonight’s Twelve-days-to-Christmas Ball,’ Julian suggests rallyingly. ‘All business, no pleasure, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Leo chimes in. ‘The UN-mandated ceasefire kicks in at midnight. Make the most of the lull before the storm!’

  ‘The lul before the storm!’ Harry Rose chuckles. ‘Haha!’

  ‘Haha,’ Tinka responds politely. ‘Desi joke,’ she adds for the bemused men. ‘You won’t get it.’

  There is a little pause. Then Harry Rose bends over Tinka again.

  ‘So who is he?’

  Leo and Julian, hoping somebody else will have better luck getting this question answered, go very quiet.

  ‘Just … somebody,’ Tinka mutters finally.

  ‘Why did he break up with you?’ Harry demands, eyes flashing. ‘Because of your ad? Men are so narrow-minded!’

  ‘He was … cool with the ad,’ Tinka says slowly. ‘We stopped talking because, well, he gave me some noble, bullshit reason, but now I realize that, really, it was because he was engaged to somebody else all along. Which is information he neglected to give me.’

  ‘Khankir pola.’ The curse words come out sounding tremendously sympathetic. ‘And how did you know this?’

  ‘My aunt phoned and told me,’ Tinka says hopelessly. ‘It was in the India Post apparently. And now…’ Her voice trembles, she swallows, hiccups, then continues, ‘He’s missing. Maybe even dead. His plane went down close to Dacca four days ago.’

  Julian and Leo stare at each other over her head, finally enlightened. Then Leo puts his arm about her shoulders.

  ‘So why do you care, eh? He cheated on you – he’s past history!

  Harry Rose stares at him like he’s a moron.

  ‘Of course she cares!’

  ‘I don’t,’ Tinka insists unconvincingly.

  Harry Rose squeezes Tinka’s hand.

  ‘Of course you don’t. Was he very good-looking, dearie?’

  Tinka sighs gustily. ‘He was … all right.’

  ‘Find an ugly fellow next time,’ Harry Rose advises. ‘They’re more faithful. More grateful. Besides, other women leave them alone.’

  She gets to her feet as she says this. The audience is clearly over. As they walk to the door, Leo asks curiously, ‘So is this a safe house for sympathizers of an independent Bangladesh?’

  Harry Rose stares at him in genuine surprise. ‘You’ll never get answers if you frame your questions like that, dearie! What kind of journalist are you?’

  ‘He’s just a photographer,’ Julian explains. ‘A blunt instrument. A witless fool.’

  ‘Thank you for your time.’ Tinka gives her a smile. ‘Let’s go, guys.’

  At the door of the little office, Tinka turns to look at the older woman, her heart in her eyes. ‘If you hear anything…’

  Harry nods. ‘If I do – which is highly improbable because this isn’t a safe house, you know, just an Ayurvedic clinic – I’ll let you know.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Ramblin’ rose,

  Ramblin’ rose,

  why you ramble, no one knows,

  wild and wind-blown, that’s how you’ve grown,

  who can cling to, a ramblin’ rose?’

  Maddy is lying on the parapet wall, singing, his eyes closed, arms thrown out dramatically, a singularly lovesick expression on his face.

  Three floors below him, English Road is getting ready to party.

  The impending ceasefire has added urgency to the evening’s revelries – the shop signs seem to glow brighter, the women’s laughter sounds sexier, richer, full of promise. Even the reclusive Front Room has emerged from the front room and, kurta flapping around his bare legs, is sending rockets shooting up into the air out of an old beer bottle. One of them misses Maddy narrowly and lands hissing on the terrace. He ignores it and continues to sing, swelling his lungs, shutting his eyes, giving the second verse all he has got.

  ‘Ramble ON,

  Ramble onnnn…

  When your ramblin’ days are go—’

  Shaanu bounces out onto the terrace.

  ‘Oye, Maddy!’

  The warbler starts, almost falls off the parapet, recovers himself and sits up, cursing.

  ‘What?’ he asks with as much dignity as he can muster and reaches for the mug of tea Shaanu has offered him. Looking at Shaanu, he narrows his eyes. ‘Why’re you wearing those overalls, bastard?’

  Shaanu tells him.

  Maddy slams his mug down with a loud clatter.

  ‘Behenchod, be reasonable!’ he says agitatedly. ‘You can’t just gatecrash some Paki party at the Intercon! You’ll get yourself caught and killed!’

  But Shaanu just shakes his head and starts to comb his hair before the cracked, soap-caked mirror hammered lopsidedly into the terrace wall.

  ‘She thinks I was just fooling around with her, Maddy. She thinks I’m engaged to somebody else – I have to find her and clear up that misunderstanding.’

  ‘She thinks you’re dead,’ Maddy says bluntly. ‘Which is okay. Wait for the war to finish and then clear up the misunde…’ He pauses, frowning. ‘Wait a second, you’re engaged? To whom? When did that happen?’

  ‘It didn’t,’ Shaanu says. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Maddy looks at him like he’s a moron. ‘So explain to her also later! Why risk your life now?’

  Shaanu’s face grows stubborn. ‘I don’t want her going around thinking I’m a narrow-minded asshole. Suppose she falls for somebody else?’

  ‘Saale.’ Maddy can scarcely credit his ears. ‘If you wanted to talk to her so badly why didn’t you do so while she was here and you were doing compounder duty? Why did you hide?’

  ‘I couldn’t have talked to her here.’ Ishaan shakes his head impatiently. ‘First, there were these two goras with her – I didn’t know who the hell they were! Supposing they hauled me away and it blew Harry Rose’s cover? Besides,’ he looks a little sheepish, ‘I wasn’t exactly looking my best, brother. I was unshaved and dirty, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth.’

  He dips his comb in a jar of Brylcreem and goes back to combing his hair in the cracked mirror, leaving Maddy to splutter into the tea he’s finally started sipping.

  ‘Bastard, are you man or peacock?’ he demands when he can speak.

  Shaanu grins, throws out his arms and lets out a piercing squawk, an eerily exact replication of a peacock’s mating call.

  ‘She still loves me.’ He grins. ‘I could tell.’

  Maddy can’t help grinning back.

  ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘You’re the coolest cat in the place.’

  Shaanu laughs, jumps up on the parapet and hugs him hard.

  ‘Tu bhi chal,’ he urges, his grey eyes alight with that daredevil gleam that always makes Maddy uneasy. ‘Come on, it’ll be fun! We’ll eat Pakistani food and encroach on Pakistani hospitality and dance with pretty Pakistani girls. Hey, maybe they’ll have a piano so you can wow the dames!’

  Maddy shakes his head.

  ‘The only dame I want to wow is right here.’

  This gives Ishaan pause. He loosens
his manic grip on his friend’s shoulders.

  ‘Maddy, she’s too old for you. Besides, I’m pretty sure Macho da and she have some chakkar.’

  ‘No,’ says Maddy with conviction. ‘It’s a work-only relationship. Don’t be so goddamn narrow-minded, Baaz!’

  ‘What is this work anyway?’ Shaanu demands. ‘What are they up to? What’s this great mission they’re on?’

  Maddy looks away sullenly. ‘I don’t know,’ he admits.

  ‘I say we try and get in touch with the Indian forces,’ Ishaan says. ‘That’s another good reason to go to the Intercon tonight! Hundred per cent there will be people there who’ll get word across and connect us to the Indian side—’

  ‘You’re talking like a madman!’ Maddy interrupts angrily. ‘And you’re wounded – that cut on your shoulder hasn’t healed yet.’

  ‘Harry’s given me a really phaardu painkiller,’ Shaanu tells him. ‘I don’t feel a thing!’

  Maddy throws up his head.

  ‘Fine gratitude you’re showing her then, sneaking off once she’s helped you!’

  Ishaan sighs, pushes his hair off his forehead, ruining all his hard work with the comb and the Brylcreem.

  ‘Maddy, I’m grateful, I really am! I’d fix their radio if I could – but I can’t. And I really, really want to meet Tinka. Come with me!’

  Maddy stares at Ishaan for a long time, then takes the comb from him, dips it in the Brylcreem and starts to comb his own hair before the mirror.

  ‘What will we call ourselves?’

  ‘I’ll be Bilawal Hussain.’ Ishaan taps the name stitched in white stencilled thread on his PAF overalls.

  ‘Mad,’ says Maddy resignedly. ‘Ripe for the pagal khana.’

  ‘Come with me, brother,’ Shaanu urges. ‘C’mon! I’ll pass you off as my civilian friend.’

  ‘Arrey yaar, why do I have to be a bloody civilian?’ Maddy demands irritably. ‘Civilians suck. When I was a child our batman never let our spaniel Benji mate with the civilian dogs, even though all the civilian bitches thought Benji was so hot!’

  ‘Behenji was a lesbian?’ Shaanu is momentarily distracted. ‘Wow, that stuff happens in dogs?’

  Maddy turns around and stares at him blankly for a moment.